Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories

by Иван Тургенев

  floor, he began to speak about the theft. But Emilie at once

  interrupted him.

  "Don't trouble yourself, it's all right. Auntie has just told me that

  the principal things have been found." (Madame Fritsche mumbled

  something to herself and went out of the room.) "And there was no need

  to go to the police at all; but I can't control myself because I am

  so ... You don't understand German? ... So quick, immer so rasch!

  But I think no more about it ... aber auch gar nicht!"

  Kuzma Vassilyevitch looked at Emilie. Her face indeed showed no trace

  of care now. Everything was smiling in that pretty little face: the

  eyes, fringed with almost white lashes, and the lips and the cheeks

  and the chin and the dimples in the chin, and even the tip of her

  turned-up nose. She went up to the little looking glass beside the

  cupboard and, screwing up her eyes and humming through her teeth,

  began tidying her hair. Kuzma Vassilyevitch followed her movements

  intently.... He found her very charming.

  VIII

  "You must excuse me," she began again, turning from side to side

  before the looking glass, "for having so ... brought you home with me.

  Perhaps you dislike it?"

  "Oh, not at all!"

  "As I have told you already, I am so quick. I act first and think

  afterwards, though sometimes I don't think at all.... What is your

  name, Mr. Officer? May I ask you?" she added going up to him and

  folding her arms.

  "My name is Kuzma Vassilyevitch Yergunov."

  "Yergu.... Oh, it's not a nice name! I mean it's difficult for me. I

  shall call you Mr. Florestan. At Riga we had a Mr. Florestan. He sold

  capital gros-de-Naples in his shop and was a handsome man, as

  good-looking as you. But how broad-shouldered you are! A regular

  sturdy Russian! I like the Russians.... I am a Russian myself ... my

  papa was an officer. But my hands are whiter than yours!" She raised

  them above her head, waved them several times in the air, so as to

  drive the blood from them, and at once dropped them. "Do you see? I

  wash them with Greek scented soap.... Sniff! Oh, but don't kiss

  them.... I did not do it for that.... Where are you serving?"

  "In the fleet, in the nineteenth Black Sea company."

  "Oh, you are a sailor! Well, do you get a good salary?"

  "No ... not very."

  "You must be very brave. One can see it at once from your eyes. What

  thick eyebrows you've got! They say you ought to grease them with lard

  overnight to make them grow. But why have you no moustache?"

  "It's against the regulations."

  "Oh, that's not right! What's that you've got, a dagger?"

  "It's a cutlass; a cutlass, so to say, is the sailor's weapon."

  "Ah, a cutlass! Is it sharp? May I look?" With an effort, biting her

  lip and screwing up her eyes, she drew the blade out of the scabbard

  and put it to her nose.

  "Oh, how blunt! I can kill you with it in a minute!"

  She waved it at Kuzma Vassilyevitch. He pretended to be frightened and

  laughed. She laughed too.

  "Ihr habt pardon, you are pardoned," she pronounced, throwing

  herself into a majestic attitude. "There, take your weapon! And how

  old are you?" she asked suddenly.

  "Twenty-five."

  "And I am nineteen! How funny that is! Ach!" And Emilie went off into

  such a ringing laugh that she threw herself back in her chair. Kuzma

  Vassilyevitch did not get up from his chair and looked still more

  intently at her rosy face which was quivering with laughter and he

  felt more and more attracted by her.

  All at once Emilie was silent and humming through her teeth, as her

  habit was, went back to the looking glass.

  "Can you sing, Mr. Florestan?"

  "No, I have never been taught."

  "Do you play on the guitar? Not that either? I can. I have a guitar

  set with perlenmutter but the strings are broken. I must buy

  some new ones. You will give me the money, won't you, Mr. Officer?

  I'll sing you a lovely German song." She heaved a sigh and shut her

  eyes. "Ah, such a lovely one! But you can dance? Not that, either?

  Unmöglich! I'll teach you. The schottische and the

  valse-cosaque. Tra-la-la, tra-la-la," Emilie pirouetted once or

  twice. "Look at my shoes! From Warsaw. Oh, we will have some dancing,

  Mr. Florestan! But what are you going to call me?"

  Kuzma Vassilyevitch grinned and blushed to his ears.

  "I shall call you: lovely Emilie!"

  "No, no! You must call me: Mein Schätzchen, mein Zuckerpüppchen!

  Repeat it after me."

  "With the greatest pleasure, but I am afraid I shall find it

  difficult...."

  "Never mind, never mind. Say: Mein."

  "Me-in."

  "Zucker."

  "Tsook-ker."

  "Püppchen! Püppchen! Püppchen!"

  "Poop ... poop.... That I can't manage. It doesn't sound nice."

  "No! You must ... you must! Do you know what it means? That's the very

  nicest word for a young lady in German. I'll explain it to you

  afterwards. But here is auntie bringing us the samovar. Bravo! Bravo!

  auntie, I will have cream with my tea.... Is there any cream?"

  "So schweige doch," answered the aunt.

  IX

  Kuzma Vassilyevitch stayed at Madame Fritsche's till midnight. He had

  not spent such a pleasant evening since his arrival at Nikolaev. It is

  true that it occurred to him that it was not seemly for an officer and

  a gentleman to be associating with such persons as this native of Riga

  and her auntie, but Emilie was so pretty, babbled so amusingly and

  bestowed such friendly looks upon him, that he dismissed his rank and

  family and made up his mind for once to enjoy himself. Only one

  circumstance disturbed him and left an impression that was not quite

  agreeable. When his conversation with Emilie and Madame Fritsche was

  in full swing, the door from the lobby opened a crack and a man's hand

  in a dark cuff with three tiny silver buttons on it was stealthily

  thrust in and stealthily laid a big bundle on the chair near the door.

  Both ladies instantly darted to the chair and began examining the

  bundle. "But these are the wrong spoons!" cried Emilie, but her aunt

  nudged her with her elbow and carried away the bundle without tying up

  the ends. It seemed to Kuzma Vassilyevitch that one end was spattered

  with something red, like blood.

  "What is it?" he asked Emilie. "Is it some more stolen things returned

  to you?"

  "Yes," answered Emilie, as it were, reluctantly. "Some more."

  "Was it your servant found them?"

  Emilie frowned.

  "What servant? We haven't any servant."

  "Some other man, then?"

  "No men come to see us."

  "But excuse me, excuse me.... I saw the cuff of a man's coat or

  jacket. And, besides, this cap...."

  "Men never, never come to see us," Emilie repeated emphatically. "What

  did you see? You saw nothing! And that cap is mine."

  "How is that?"

  "Why, just that. I wear it for dressing up.... Yes, it is mine, und

  Punctum."

  "Who brought you the bundle, then?"

  Emil
ie made no answer and, pouting, followed Madame Fritsche out of

  the room. Ten minutes later she came back alone, without her aunt and

  when Kuzma Vassilyevitch tried to question her again, she gazed at his

  forehead, said that it was disgraceful for a gentleman to be so

  inquisitive (as she said this, her face changed a little, as it were,

  darkened), and taking a pack of old cards from the card table drawer,

  asked him to tell fortunes for her and the king of hearts.

  Kuzma Vassilyevitch laughed, took the cards, and all evil thoughts

  immediately slipped out of his mind.

  But they came back to him that very day. When he had got out of the

  gate into the street, had said good-bye to Emilie, shouted to her for

  the last time, "Adieu, Zuckerpüppchen!" a short man darted by

  him and turning for a minute in his direction (it was past midnight

  but the moon was shining rather brightly), displayed a lean gipsy face

  with thick black eyebrows and moustache, black eyes and a hooked nose.

  The man at once rushed round the corner and it struck Kuzma

  Vassilyevitch that he recognised--not his face, for he had never seen

  it before--but the cuff of his sleeve. Three silver buttons gleamed

  distinctly in the moonlight. There was a stir of uneasy perplexity in

  the soul of the prudent lieutenant; when he got home he did not light

  as usual his meerschaum pipe. Though, indeed, his sudden acquaintance

  with charming Emilie and the agreeable hours spent in her company

  would alone have induced his agitation.

  X

  Whatever Kuzma Vassilyevitch's apprehensions may have been, they were

  quickly dissipated and left no trace. He took to visiting the two

  ladies from Riga frequently. The susceptible lieutenant was soon on

  friendly terms with Emilie. At first he was ashamed of the

  acquaintance and concealed his visits; later on he got over being

  ashamed and no longer concealed his visits; it ended by his being more

  eager to spend his time with his new friends than with anyone and

  greatly preferring their society to the cheerless solitude of his own

  four walls. Madame Fritsche herself no longer made the same unpleasant

  impression upon him, though she still treated him morosely and

  ungraciously. Persons in straitened circumstances like Madame Fritsche

  particularly appreciate a liberal expenditure in their visitors, and

  Kuzma Vassilyevitch was a little stingy and his presents for the most

  part took the shape of raisins, walnuts, cakes.... Only once he let

  himself go and presented Emilie with a light pink fichu of real French

  material, and that very day she had burnt a hole in his gift with a

  candle. He began to upbraid her; she fixed the fichu to the cat's

  tail; he was angry; she laughed in his face. Kuzma Vassilyevitch was

  forced at last to admit to himself that he had not only failed to win

  the respect of the ladies from Riga, but had even failed to gain their

  confidence: he was never admitted at once, without preliminary

  scrutinising; he was often kept waiting; sometimes he was sent away

  without the slightest ceremony and when they wanted to conceal

  something from him they would converse in German in his presence.

  Emilie gave him no account of her doings and replied to his questions

  in an offhand way as though she had not heard them; and, worst of all,

  some of the rooms in Madame Fritsche's house, which was a fairly large

  one, though it looked like a hovel from the street, were never opened

  to him. For all that, Kuzma Vassilyevitch did not give up his visits;

  on the contrary, he paid them more and more frequently: he was seeing

  living people, anyway. His vanity was gratified by Emilie's continuing

  to call him Florestan, considering him exceptionally handsome and

  declaring that he had eyes like a bird of paradise, "wie die Augen

  eines Paradiesvogels!"

  XI

  One day in the very height of summer, Kuzma Vassilyevitch, who had

  spent the whole morning in the sun with contractors and workmen,

  dragged himself tired and exhausted to the little gate that had become

  so familiar to him. He knocked and was admitted. He shambled into the

  so-called drawing-room and immediately lay down on the sofa. Emilie

  went up to him and mopped his wet brow with a handkerchief.

  "How tired he is, poor pet! How hot he is!" she said commiseratingly.

  "Good gracious! You might at least unbutton your collar. My goodness,

  how your throat is pulsing!"

  "I am done up, my dear," groaned Kuzma Vassilyevitch. "I've been on my

  feet all the morning, in the baking sun. It's awful! I meant to go

  home. But there those vipers, the contractors, would find me! While

  here with you it is cool.... I believe I could have a nap."

  "Well, why not? Go to sleep, my little chick; no one will disturb you

  here."...

  "But I am really ashamed."

  "What next! Why ashamed? Go to sleep. And I'll sing you ... what do you

  call it? ... I'll sing you to bye-bye, 'Schlaf, mein Kindchen,

  Schlafe!'" She began singing.

  "I should like a drink of water first."

  "Here is a glass of water for you. Fresh as crystal! Wait, I'll put a

  pillow under your head.... And here is this to keep the flies off."

  She covered his face with a handkerchief.

  "Thank you, my little cupid.... I'll just have a tiny doze ... that's

  all."

  Kuzma Vassilyevitch closed his eyes and fell asleep immediately.

  "Schlaf, mein Kindchen, schlafe," sang Emilie, swaying from

  side to side and softly laughing at her song and her movements.

  "What a big baby I have got!" she thought. "A boy!"

  XII

  An hour and a half later the lieutenant awoke. He fancied in his sleep

  that someone touched him, bent over him, breathed over him. He

  fumbled, and pulled off the kerchief. Emilie was on her knees close

  beside him; the expression of her face struck him as queer. She jumped

  up at once, walked away to the window and put something away in her

  pocket.

  Kuzma Vassilyevitch stretched.

  "I've had a good long snooze, it seems!" he observed, yawning. "Come

  here, meine züsse Fräulein!"

  Emilie went up to him. He sat up quickly, thrust his hand into her

  pocket and took out a small pair of scissors.

  "Ach, Herr Je!" Emilie could not help exclaiming.

  "It's ... it's a pair of scissors?" muttered Kuzma Vassilyevitch.

  "Why, of course. What did you think it was ... a pistol? Oh, how funny

  you look! You're as rumpled as a pillow and your hair is all standing

  up at the back.... And he doesn't laugh.... Oh, oh! And his eyes are

  puffy.... Oh!"

  Emilie went off into a giggle.

  "Come, that's enough," muttered Kuzma Vassilyevitch, and he got up

  from the sofa. "That's enough giggling about nothing. If you can't

  think of anything more sensible, I'll go home.... I'll go home," he

  repeated, seeing that she was still laughing.

  Emilie subsided.

  "Come, stay; I won't.... Only you must brush your hair."

  "No, never mind.... Don't trouble. I'd better go," said Kuzma

  Vassilyevitch, and he took up his cap.

  Emil
ie pouted.

  "Fie, how cross he is! A regular Russian! All Russians are cross. Now

  he is going. Fie! Yesterday he promised me five roubles and today he

  gives me nothing and goes away."

  "I haven't any money on me," Kuzma Vassilyevitch muttered grumpily in

  the doorway. "Good-bye."

  Emilie looked after him and shook her finger.